Second Chances
by Andromeda and the Sea Monster
Summary: January 1919: The war is over and the world is beginning to heal. Mary and Matthew meet in the library late one night, and secrets kept for far too long come out, leading to discussions about literature, honesty, and hope for the future. One-shot for now, but may be added to at some point in the future.


_**Firstly, sorry to everyone who was expecting an update on 'Love Alters Not'. The next chapter will be up as soon as possible, but it's not finished yet.**_

 _ **This is completely unrelated to my other stories, and was written in a completely different way. I didn't plan it at all, and just wrote what first came into my head. It's set during Episode 7 of Series 2, either before the 'Mary is still in love with you' conversation, or in a universe where that conversation doesn't take place. I wanted everything that needed to be said to be said by Mary and Matthew.**_

 _ **I wrote this after re-watching the S2 Christmas Special recently. I'd read** Tess of the D'Urbervilles **a couple of months before, and for the first time, I understood Mary's comment 'I am Tess of the D'Urbervilles to your Angel Clare'. It interested me how well this idea fitted with Mary's view of her situation, and with her assumption that Matthew would think she had been 'made different' by it.**_

 _ **I have always felt that canon didn't deal with the Pamuk situation satisfactorily, and while I have addressed it before in my story 'All That Matters', I felt that an understanding of the story behind Mary's reference to** Tess **opened up a different way of exploring her feelings about what happened to her.**_

 _ **While I don't think you need to have read** Tess **to understand the references to it in this story, I would really recommend you read it, as it's a wonderful (if heart-breaking) novel. However, if you do feel you need to understand the novel, and don't have time to read it, there's always the plot summary on Wikipedia, although you will miss out on the beauty of Hardy's writing.**_

 _ **Obviously, I don't own either Downton Abbey or Tess of the D'Urbervilles.**_

 _ **I hope you enjoy.**_

* * *

He couldn't sleep. It wasn't a rare occurrence, not since he'd stopped taking the sleeping draughts. Dreams and memories seemed confused and muddled in the darkness of the night, and it was unsettling. And now there was the constant ache in his back and legs from the hours of therapy he was now doing every day.

He had walked the length of the parallel bars several times today, and it had felt wonderful. But he was paying for it now. He knew he could always take some of the pain medication on his bedside table. But he didn't like doing that, and besides, it was a good pain, a pain that meant he was slowly recovering.

Except he really couldn't sleep. He could have read, but he had finished his book before he had tried to sleep, and rereading it didn't seem worth it.

He sat up, still surprised at how easy it was getting now to do that without help, and turned on the lamp on his bedside table. He felt wide awake and restless, despite the late hour.

Suddenly, he knew what to do. He would get up and go and find a new book in the library. Because he could do that now. He could go wherever he liked. Well, not quite; stairs were still beyond him. But that didn't matter. The library was definitely possible.

He looked across the room at his wheelchair. Why hadn't he asked Bates to leave it by the bed? Why had it not occurred to him before that he was now free to get up when he liked? It looked a long way to walk, considering he could barely manage with the parallel bars to take most of his weight. But he needed to do this.

He shifted his legs so they were dangling off the edge of the bed, and bit his lip. He knew he could stand unsupported for a few seconds, but walking… Perhaps if he used the wall, he might keep his balance better. Yes, that was the best idea. Concentrating hard, he pushed up slowly and stood on unsteady legs. He took a stumbling step towards the wall, and reached out for it with one hand, reaching out and leaning on the bedside table with his other hand. It worked. One step down, a few more to go.

By the time he reached his chair, his legs were shaking badly, and he was gritting his teeth against the pain. But when he sat down and sighed with relief, it was worth it. He had got up on his own, had walked a few steps with only walls and furniture for support. It may be a modest victory, but it was a victory.

He wheeled himself to the library, finding a strange excitement in being the only one up. This new freedom was incredible. He almost laughed.

But as he reached the door to the library, he saw there was a light on in there. Somebody was up then, apart from him. He was in his pyjamas, but it wasn't like everyone in the house hadn't already seen him in pyjamas, those first days here after coming back from the hospital. He wasn't going to be put off a mission that had taken so much effort.

He opened the door and went inside, looking around for someone. At first, he saw nobody, and assumed the light had been left on accidentally. But as he wheeled himself further into the room, he saw a white figure curled up in an armchair. He looked closer. _Mary._

"Mary? What are you doing up?" he asked.

She started, having obviously not heard him enter the room. She started at him in confusion.

"Matthew? What are you…? How…?"

"I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd come and look for a new book." He was trying to ignore the fact that she was in her nightdress, only a thin, open dressing gown covering it. Her thin, white nightdress that allowed him to see her body so well he gulped nervously.

"Oh. Me too," she said after a moment.

They stared at each other for a moment.

"What are you reading?" he asked eventually.

" _Persuasion_ ," she replied, holding the well-loved old copy up for him to see.

They stared at each other again, drinking in the sight of each other dressed so differently. Mary noted that his pyjamas were new, not the same ones he had worn when she had still been his nurse, the same ones she had helped him take on and off when he had been unable to do it himself. It made her want to cry somehow, the thought of that time when he had been so broken, the thought that he had been more hers then than he could ever be again.

"A good choice," he said after a while. "We could all do with reading some happy endings."

"But aren't you getting your happy ending?" she asked. "Aren't you marrying the woman you love after years of war and pain?"

 _No,_ he thought. _No, I'm not, because the woman I love is you._ But he couldn't say that aloud. So instead he made a noncommittal noise that really meant nothing.

He looked away from her, unable to look at her, to see the pain in her eyes, to hear it in her voice. He went over to the bookshelf and began to scan the titles for something suitable. He wasn't certain he wanted to read about happy endings, whatever he had said to Mary. He saw _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ on a higher shelf, and reached up, realising that it was too high to reach from his chair. Only yesterday, he would have asked Mary for help, or chosen another book. But now he had got up on his own, and he felt a new confidence in his legs. He could do this. He need only stand for a few seconds.

Mary noticed his struggle to reach the book he wanted, and she stood up and went over to him, ready to get it for him. But before she could, he reached out for her hand.

"No, thank you Mary. I can do it myself."

They looked down at the same time at their hands, feeling that strange and beautiful excitement they always felt when they touched.

Mary suddenly couldn't breathe. They had barely touched each other at all since Lavinia had come back and taken over her role of caring for him. And now they were in the library in the middle of the night, wearing their nightclothes. And it was a new kind of touching. It wasn't the shy, desperate brushings of fingers of their almost-engagement before the war. It wasn't the polite, distant handshakes and cheek kisses of cousins. And it wasn't the caring, gentle touch of a nurse and her patient. It was just them, Mary and Matthew, connected by that bond that made it so very hard to know that they would marry others.

Matthew had to close his eyes after a moment. The sight of her pale, delicate hand in his larger one, callused from war and pushing his chair and gripping the bars in therapy, was just too much. But even with his eyes closed he felt her, felt her soft skin, her warmth.

After what seemed like an age, he gently pulled his hand back.

"Right," he said, falsely cheerful. "Promise not to laugh if this doesn't go well."

"I promise," Mary said, somehow preventing her voice from catching. She held her breath as he looked away from her and took a deep breath. He slipped his feet off the footrest of his chair, then slowly, his faced pinched in concentration and possibly pain, he pushed himself up.

He stood still for a moment, smiling as his legs held his weight, then swayed slightly, and reached out to steady himself.

Mary caught his arm and held him steady, while he braced himself against the bookshelf with his other hand.

"Thanks," he muttered with a half-smile. He took another deep breath, then, still allowing Mary to hold him steady, he reached for the book he wanted, took it off the shelf, and almost fell back into his chair, only Mary's steadying arms saving him from hurting his back by sitting with too much of a jolt.

He sighed, and smiled triumphantly.

"You did it," Mary said. This time, her voice did catch, just a little. Seeing him stand like that still did that to her. He had come so far from the pale, broken man in the hospital bed.

" _We_ did it," he said warmly, smiling up at her. Because he couldn't have done it without her. He couldn't have got through the past few months at all without her.

She gulped. _We._ She loved how he said it. But they were never going to be a ' _we'_. They were to marry other people.

"Are you going back to bed now?" she asked. After all, he had said he had only come for a book. Then, without really thinking, she added, "Or you could keep me company for a while. We could read together."

They stared at each other. She was asking him to stay up alone with her in the middle of the night, with both of them dressed entirely inappropriately. And it didn't feel wrong. They may have been spending less time together in the last few weeks, but in the autumn, in that long, painful, peaceful autumn, they had been together most of every day. They knew each other so well now.

Except for one thing they feared to know. They didn't know each other's hearts. They had talked of everything together, but not their feelings for each other. Because it was wrong, to love, yes, _love,_ someone else, when one was engaged. And they were both engaged. The date for his wedding had been decided on, and hers was to be not long after.

"You know, I think I might stay up a little longer," Matthew replied, after a long pause, which had been neither awkward nor strange, but entirely natural.

Mary smiled at him, and went back to her armchair.

Matthew wheeled himself over to the end of the sofa, where he usually parked his chair. But he was filled with an urge to be _on_ the sofa, not next to it, to lean back against the soft cushions and feel normal again. And he _could_.

This he was sure he could do himself. He set his feet down on the floor, pushed up carefully, stood straight for a moment, before taking a few small half-steps towards the sofa and half-falling down onto it. He landed sitting slightly askew, and his legs were all tangled, and he laughed at himself, before pushing himself up straight and repositioning his legs, until he was sitting normally. He looked bashfully at Mary.

"Are you alright?" she asked, trying not to sound too concerned, even as she fought the urge to go to him and hold him, and make sure he really was fine.

"I didn't end up on the floor. I'd call that a modest success," he replied, grinning. She laughed, and he joined her. It was so simple, to laugh like this, to just _be_ with each other.

They looked at each other, still laughing, for quite some time. Then, at the same moment, they decided to do what they had come to the library in the first place to do, and read. They settled in their chairs, and tried to concentrate on their books.

Except they couldn't.

Mary could hear him breathing, not loudly, but noticeably in the otherwise silent room. She tried to concentrate on Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth, but suddenly their story seemed too neat, too convenient, too ridiculous. Anne had made her choice, and yet she was given another chance. How unrealistic. That didn't happen in real life. She knew.

She didn't want to read about Anne's happy ending. She didn't care. But she continued to pretend to read, because she couldn't let Matthew know the turn her thoughts had taken.

Matthew was aware that Mary hadn't turned the page once since he had entered the room. They were both supposedly reading, but nobody read that slowly. And he wasn't reading either. How could he? _She_ was there, so close. He could almost feel where she had touched him: on his hand; just _here_ on his arm.

And he regretted his choice of book. After all the effort that had gone into taking it off the shelf, he decided he didn't want to read something so depressing. He'd never liked it really. It depicted a world so harsh, so unjust, it gave him no pleasure to read about it. A world that was ' _blighted'_ , as Tess had put it. He had had enough of blighted worlds. He was ready for hope, for life rising from the ashes, for the hope of happiness. He wouldn't find that in _Tess_.

But worst of all the novels unappealing qualities, in Matthew's view, was Angel Clare. That man who had abandoned the woman whom he claimed to have loved, because of something that had happened to her long ago, that was entirely the fault of an evil, manipulative man. That wasn't real love. Real love was loving someone no matter what, knowing that they were the centre of your universe, loving them so much it hurt. He knew.

He glanced up at Mary, at the same time she looked up at him. There was such anguish in her eyes, such hopelessness, it broke his heart. Again.

"Either we're both very slow readers, or we're both pretending," he said, trying to push unwanted thoughts to the back of his mind.

"Which is it?" she asked, smiling, although it didn't reach her eyes.

"The latter in my case, I'm afraid."

"Mine too."

They smiled. Neither of them looked remotely happy.

"I've decided I don't like happy endings," Mary said suddenly, her voice louder than she had intended.

Matthew stared at her. She put her book down on the table and hugged herself. _Was she cold?_ Matthew wondered. She was wearing almost nothing, and now he came to think about it, he was cold too.

"The world isn't like an Austen novel," she continued more quietly. She glanced at his book. "It's more like Hardy." Then she laughed humourlessly. Yes, it really was. She was Tess, impure, ruined, unlovable. And yet, unlike Tess, it had been entirely her fault. Everything that had gone wrong in her life had been her fault.

"Mary…" Matthew began. He stopped. He didn't know what to say. Mary looked so sad, so lost, so convinced that the world really was as grim as Hardy. She shouldn't feel like that. He had seen horrors beyond his worst nightmares, and now, those horrors _were_ his nightmares. But Mary… What was it that made her so sad, so cold, so… alone?

He wanted to gather her up in his arms and tell her she was alright, she was safe, she was loved. But he couldn't say that. She didn't love him, and he had no right to tell her what was in his heart when he was bound to Lavinia. Whom he loved. He _did_ love her, he told himself. Sweet, kind Lavinia, who had been prepared to give up her life for him. He _did_ love her.

But not like he loved Mary. He could tell himself it was wrong all he liked, it didn't change the fact that Mary would always be different. She would always be the one who haunted his dreams. And she was here, dressed only in a thin nightdress, her hair in a long, thick plait down her back.

"Mary," he began again, "There can be happy endings."

"Perhaps. But not second chances," she replied, her voice so quiet, so broken, it made Matthew want to cry.

"There can be second chances too," he said.

"For you, perhaps. With Lavinia. Not for me."

And suddenly she was crying. Not delicate, ladylike crying, but heart-breaking sobs. Matthew was shocked. Lady Mary Crawley did not cry. The only time she had cried in his presence was… at the garden party. That awful garden party.

His heart broke again, for her this time, not for himself. Except it was for him too, wasn't it? They were so tied up together, he cared about her so much, loved her so much, her pain was his. And he felt it.

"Oh Mary, my darling, come here," he said, unable to watch her sitting curled up on that armchair, so close to him, yet out of his reach. He didn't notice his use of the endearment, it came so naturally.

Mary did though. He had called her darling. Her Matthew, her beloved Matthew had called her his darling, and yet it solved nothing. But he held out his arms to her, and no amount of will power could save her from the inevitable rush into his arms.

He caught her, pulled her down onto the sofa with him and held her, rocking her gently as she cried.

"Mary, darling, tell me, please," he murmured.

"There are no second chances, Matthew," she said through her tears. "I've made my mistakes, and now I must live with the aftermath."

"What mistakes, Mary?" he asked urgently.

"So many," she whispered. "Too many."

"What do you need a second chance at, Mary?" he asked. He felt he was at the edge of a precipice. She would tell him, or she wouldn't. The enigma that was his Mary would be solved, or he would be shut out forever.

He heard her murmur something quietly, but her face was buried in his shoulder, and he couldn't hear.

"What did you say?" he asked.

Mary looked at him, the tears no longer streaming down her cheeks, but her eyes still wet, and said clearly, "You."

Matthew froze. He didn't know what to say, or what to do, or even what to think. _You._ What did she mean? That one word, so important, what did it mean? _You._

"It doesn't matter now," she said, her voice suddenly calm. "It's too late. I ruined everything. But it will be alright. You will marry Lavinia. You will be happy. You will have children. I will marry Richard. I will…" she broke off again as another sob overtook her.

"Mary…" Matthew began. How many times had he said her name that night? He loved the sound of it, loved the way feeling it gave him to say it, loved her. Oh God, how he loved her!

But he was lost. He didn't understand what she was telling him. Telling him he would marry Lavinia, be happy, have children, while she…

"You don't love Carlisle," he said. He knew it with a sudden, awful clarity. He had always hated the man, but had put it down to jealousy, and had assumed that Mary saw something in him that he didn't. But he knew now.

"No," she replied. There was no point lying, not tonight, not when every rule seemed to be being broken. Why cling to useless lies when she was sitting in Matthew's arms, both of them barely dressed, as she cried her heart out?

"Then why…?" he asked hesitantly.

She looked at him with anguish in her eyes.

She couldn't tell him.

"He's rich. He's powerful. He wants me," she said. It was convincing enough for the rest of the world, convincing enough for Matthew when he had been too deeply absorbed in his own misery to pay attention. But it was not convincing enough for him when he was holding her in his arms like this, when the only thing he could think about was her.

"You don't care about that," he said confidently.

"I… no."

"Then…?"

"Because I have no choice, Matthew. I must marry."

"No. You will always have a place here."

"As a maiden aunt? Not even that. A maiden distant cousin. The ruined spinster, shunned by society, living on the generous Earl's charity. No."

Matthew stared at her. Ruined? Shunned by society? A broken engagement was something for the society gossips to talk about for a few weeks, but it wouldn't be a true scandal. So what was Mary talking about?

"Why would you be ruined?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully measured. This was it. He knew. This was it.

She turned away from him then, curled up, as if trying to hold herself together.

She was going to tell him. She had known it from the beginning of the conversation really. She was going to tell him. It would make it a clean break. He would never look at her in that sweet, loving way again, he would never speak to her again, perhaps. And then she could marry Richard, knowing that the alternative to doing so was worse. Years of secrets and lies pressed down on her, and she would free herself. She would free herself from his love, or the hope of his love, forever.

She took a deep breath, and staring at the floor, she began.

"I took a lover," she said simply. Matthew gasped, and she continued. "Kemal Pamuk. He didn't die in his bed, he died in mine. While… while making love to me."

There was such utter silence in the library, they could hear the ticking of the clock.

Then Matthew asked, his voice quite reasonable, even if it was a little too quiet. "Why?"

"What?" Mary asked, confused.

"Why? Why did you… take a lover? Did you… did you love him?" he choked out.

Mary turned to stare at him. She hadn't expected him to be so reasonable, and yet his reaction was so… so _Matthew_ , so logical.

"No. How could I? I'd only just met him."

"Then…?"

"Lust? A need for excitement? Something about him that I…? God, Matthew, what difference does it make? It happened. I am…" she shook her head, laughing that humourless laugh again. She caught sight of Matthew's book. "I am Tess of the D'Urbervilles, impure, ruined, I..."

"No!" Matthew said, far louder than he had intended. He was angry, but he didn't know why. Mary started, and he felt awful for scaring her. "No," he said more quietly. "Tess was innocent. She was naïve, young, unprepared, but she was innocent. Angel was the one in the wrong, when he left her. And Alec… he…" He caught himself, getting the truth tangled up with fiction. It wasn't helpful. But he had to finish. "Tess was raped, Mary."

Mary stared at him. "I know," she said quietly. "Then I am worse than Tess. I let him. When he appeared in my doorway, I let him. He said I couldn't scream, but I could have. I didn't fight him, Matthew. I let him. He said I was ruined already, and I was, but still. I let him."

She stopped talking, and stared at the floor again, looking so small and fragile and lost.

"Mary? Did you invite him to your room?" Matthew asked quietly.

"Matthew, please, this won't help, just…"

"Did you invite him?" he persisted. Perhaps he was being cruel, pressing her like this, perhaps it wouldn't help. But he had to know. Something was wrong about what she had told him.

"No," Mary replied quietly.

"Did you ask him to leave?"

"Of course I did!"

"And he didn't?"

"No. He told me that I were ruined either way."

"So you had no choice but to let him stay?"

"I could have screamed," Mary said bitterly. How many times had she told herself that, how many times had she regretted listening to that man?

"But you didn't scream. Why?"

"Because then I would have been found with a man in my bedroom."

They were silent for a moment, before Matthew asked, "And did he ask you?"

"What?"

"Did he ask you if… if you wanted to… with him?"

"No, of course not. He just came over to me and… I let him. I kissed him back. I pulled him closer to me. I let him."

"And then…?"

"He died. He went all… limp. I thought it was normal, and I was glad he'd stopped. But he didn't move. And he was heavy. And I felt for a pulse and there wasn't one." She was shaking now, so violently, it frightened Matthew. He pulled her close to him, rocking her gently.

"Oh God, he was so heavy. And his eyes. They were open, wide and staring. Dark. Looking at me, blaming me. I was trapped under him, I felt so weak, I was trembling so much, I couldn't move him. And he was still warm."

"Shhhh, Mary, my darling, hush, it's alright," Matthew whispered, still rocking her, holding her, loving her. What she was describing was so awful, so terrifying, he wondered how she had kept it secret for so long. She had carried this story, this memory, with nobody to talk to about it. What that man had done to her… it made him angrier than anything he could remember.

"I let him, Matthew," Mary said. Begging him to understand, to shout at her, to blame her. To make it possible for her to move on.

"No. Oh Mary, it wasn't your fault. You didn't ask him to come, you didn't want… oh my darling, what he did to you… it was rape, Mary."

"It wasn't. I kissed him back, Matthew. And… it hurt, but it wasn't awful. I could have fought him off. I could have screamed. I didn't. And you remember how I was with him that day. Flirting shamelessly. God, I was so naïve! I didn't realise… I thought it was all for fun, to make the day more interesting. I wanted excitement. I was so stupid."

Matthew thought back to that evening, saw in his mind's eye a younger Mary. And yes, she had flirted with Pamuk, but that was just how she was, and she had been so young. He had seen her flirt like that with numerous other men. How could she have known that this one was no gentleman?

"You must listen to me Mary. It was not your fault. You weren't stupid, you were young. What you went through… nobody should have to go through that."

Mary seemed to deflate, crying softly. She was so tired of it all. All the secrets and the worries and the guilt. She shouldn't be letting Matthew comfort her like this, but it was so very nice, so relaxing. And as he spoke, she began to see what had happened differently, as if it had happened to someone else entirely. She thought of Tess Durbeyfield, so innocent and naïve. _"Why didn't you tell me there was danger? Why didn't you warn me? Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks; but I never had the chance of discovering in that way; and you did not help me!"_ She thought of her younger self. She might be a Lady, but whatever Tess had believed, she still hadn't known what to guard herself against. She had been so young, she realised. Now she felt ancient. But it had been the war that had made her grow up. Before that, she had been so… sheltered. However sophisticated she had thought herself.

"Whether it was my fault or not, it doesn't really matter, does it? It ruined everything, or I ruined everything, or both, I don't know. But it happened. And so we are where we are. I must marry Richard."

And slowly, Matthew began to understand.

"Sir Richard knows," he said slowly.

"Yes," Mary replied.

"You told him?"

"Yes. He bought the story. He saved me."

"And if you don't marry him, he will publish?"

Mary nodded. There was no point holding anything back now. Matthew knew the worst.

"He's blackmailing you. He's… that utter bastard!" Matthew said. Sensing Mary stiffening in shock, he said softly, "Sorry. Army language."

Mary somehow found herself smiling slightly. Her nice, polite Matthew, swearing. It touched her that this had angered him so much.

"But, Mary, it's against the law, blackmail. You can't marry him for that! You'd never be happy!"

"I won't be happy anyway, Matthew. I don't expect it. Richard and I… we could make it work, you know. I will never love him, but I never expected to marry for love, and any chance I had of doing so is long gone. There are no second chances in real life. It won't be a happy ending, but it won't be a tragedy."

 _"_ _I am ready,"_ Tess had said when the police had come to take her to her fate. And Mary knew that she was ready to resign herself to life as Richard's wife. Actions had consequences. It wasn't worth fighting.

"You can't settle like that. You can't just give up on love and happiness. You're young, you're beautiful, you're clever, you're everything a man could ever dream of." _You're perfect, and I love you._ The thought of his darling Mary, so bright, so alive, so passionate, giving up on happiness, made him feel a deep sense of loss. He gulped.

"I'm not. I'm not pure. I am damaged goods, Matthew. No man but Richard would ever want to marry me."

Her hopelessness pained him. Pained him so much, he spoke without allowing himself to think.

"I would. I do."

Mary stared at him. Surely she had misheard? Misunderstood? But the look in his eyes, so full of emotion, of pain, and yes, perhaps love, told her she had understood.

Matthew knew he should have regretted it. He knew he shouldn't have said it. He was going to marry Lavinia. But he couldn't regret it. It was the truth. He had loved her for so long now, that love was part of who he was. She thought her story would spoil her in his eyes, in any man's eyes, but it hadn't. If anything, he only loved her more, because he understood her better. Since that awful night, she had had this hanging over her, trapping her, influencing her behaviour.

And that was when it hit him. All the times during their almost-engagement when she had almost said something, then decided against it, when he had asked for an answer and she had looked at him with an expression so tortured, he had always stopped pressing her and kissed her instead. Now it all made sense and he finally understood everything.

"You were too afraid to tell me," he whispered. "You couldn't tell me, so you delayed, and then your mother was pregnant, and then she wasn't, and I didn't listen, I didn't understand. I left you."

Mary felt as if she was being torn apart by his words. He was blaming himself when it had been entirely her fault. And he didn't care about Pamuk. He would have married her. If she had only plucked up the courage to tell him everything, they could have been married. She had been afraid he would have been disgusted with her, would have thought that she had been made different by it, like Angel Clare had. But Matthew was better than that, she saw that now. And now it was too late, as she had always known it was.

"Then you… you loved me?" he whispered.

She didn't want to answer, didn't want to make everything even more complicated and painful than it already was. But she had told him everything else.

"Yes. I loved you. I love you now. I will always love you, I think," she said sadly. It was her curse and her blessing, her downfall and her salvation. "So you see, I can't look for love. Because it's you I love, it's only ever been you. And I can't love you. You will have a wife. So I must settle. And I will only ever have myself to blame."

"Pamuk is to blame, Mary. And me, and you, and Richard, and society. But… God, I love you too. It's wrong, I know it's wrong, Lavinia was prepared to… but I love you. I never stopped, even when I was angry with you, when we didn't see each other for two years. We were already in a mess, and then I proposed to Lavinia on impulse, and made everything so much more complicated."

"And so here we are," Mary said heavily.

"Here we are," Matthew agreed. What else was there to say? What was there to do?

"What are we doing, Matthew? Sitting here talking of love, hardly wearing anything, holding each other like this? It's wrong."

"But it doesn't feel wrong. I know it should, but it doesn't. Everything has been wrong since the garden party, but it feels so right now. The war is over, I have my legs back, and we don't have any secrets anymore. Why has it always been so damned complicated with us, Mary? This is so simple, so right, and yet nothing is solved. I can't let Lavinia go now, not when she was prepared to marry me _then._ "

They looked at each other in anguish, knowing that what Matthew said was true. Lavinia loved him, and however he felt about her, he couldn't just dismiss her now he could walk again.

Mary looked away, closed her eyes. Now was the time for truth, for honesty. "I would have too, you know. I would have married you, if you had been free, and if you would have had me. We could have been happy too; I never believed for a minute that your life was over," she whispered.

Matthew stared at her, uncomprehending. She couldn't mean it, surely Lady Mary Crawley would never have been prepared to give up her life to care for a crippled husband? And yet… her voice came back to him, from months ago now. _"On any terms."_ She had been talking about herself, not Lavinia.

"Oh Mary," he said, unable to say more. His throat was suddenly tight. Because he knew she had meant it, that she meant it now. She had spent almost every hour of every day with him before Lavinia had returned, and he knew by some instinct that if he had tried to send her away, as he had Lavinia, she would never have left. He had seen friendship in her care for him then, because that is what he had wanted to see. Now he recognised the expression he saw in his memory as love.

"I've never thanked you," he said, and he was suddenly angry with himself. She had done so much for him, had practically brought him back to life, and yet when Lavinia had returned, he had distanced himself from her again.

"For what? I've never done anything to deserve anyone's thanks," Mary said quietly.

"For everything, Mary," he said earnestly. "For talking to me when I couldn't be bothered to reply, for making me laugh when I thought I'd forgotten how, for holding me when I was sick, for standing up for me when Patrick Gordon came, for being there when I needed you, for showing me that I was still alive, and beginning to teach me how to live again. And for being kind to Lavinia. You really are the most remarkable woman, Mary, and I haven't told you until now."

"I'm not a good person, Matthew. I've not suddenly turned into Sybil. I just love you, and in a way, that's selfish in itself. You must get on with your life. When we leave this room, we have to go back to how we were. You do love Lavinia, I know you do, and she loves you so very much."

"How we _were_? How _were_ we, Mary? We were living a lie. This is the truth. This. Us."

"You were happy. You will be happy," she insisted, repeating it like a mantra, trying to convince herself.

" _You_ weren't. You haven't been for a long time, and now I know why. And I can't let you carry on like this. You deserve so much more than Carlisle can give you."

"I don't have a choice, Matthew! Have you not been listening?" Mary cried, raising her voice in anguish.

"But will the scandal really be so bad? And I mean it when I say you will always have a home here, and Lavinia will agree."

"How could we live like that? How could we live in the same house, with you married, and be happy? I know I couldn't. No. This, us, it's impossible, and I've made my decision about what to do now. I will marry Richard."

"You can't!"

"I can do what I like!"

"You can. But it won't make you happy."

"No, it won't. But I threw away my chance of happiness when I didn't accept your proposal immediately. I ruined everything. And now your honour compels you to marry Lavinia, and perhaps your heart. Do you love her? Really, do you love her?" She had to hear him say it, even if it tortured her. A man could surely love two women, and when one was impure, selfish and stubborn, while the other was pure, innocent and selfless, the choice of which to marry was obvious.

"Of course," Matthew replied immediately. "She's kind, and sweet, and gentle, and she was prepared to give everything up for me."

He had said it a hundred times before, and a thousand times more in his head, but now, for the first time his words sounded hollow. She was all of those things, but she incited no passion in him. He felt a sort of tenderness, but it wasn't anything approaching the fiery passion he felt for Mary.

"Well then," Mary said slowly. "We are back where we started."

"No. No, we're not. I _do_ love her, so very much. But not in the right way. Not like I love you."

It felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest as he spoke. The truth had finally passed his lips, had finally been acknowledged. And suddenly, he didn't know what to do. He always tried to do the right thing, the honourable thing, but now, he didn't know what the right thing was. Was it right to marry Lavinia when he loved Mary? His head hurt thinking about it, and he got nowhere.

"Then…" Mary began, not really knowing what she was going to say.

"I don't know, Mary. You say there are no second chances in real life, but perhaps we have one. Except I don't know if I can do it. It's impossible, this whole situation is impossible."

"And yet, only a few weeks ago, you said your situation was hopeless. And here you are, recovering. The situation is less 'impossible' than it could be."

"I don't know what to do!" Matthew said desperately, looking to Mary pleadingly. _Tell me what is right. I don't know anymore._

Mary looked at him helplessly. There was nothing she could say. She didn't know what to do either.

She shivered suddenly, and realised how cold she was. Matthew noticed immediately.

"You're cold. It's freezing, and you're barely wearing anything." He looked around for a blanket, or anything really, to keep her warm, but saw nothing. He had nothing to offer her, wearing only his pyjamas. "You need to put something warm on, darling," he said.

"I'm fine," she said unconvincingly.

Matthew took her hands in his. They were freezing.

"You're not fine. You'll catch a chill. Why don't you go and find a blanket, or a dressing gown or something?"

Mary knew that his suggestion was sensible, but she had a horrible feeling that if she left him, even for a minute, this strange openness between them would be gone. In her bedroom, she might feel differently about everything. Or she might meet someone and be delayed, or questioned as to why she was still up. Here, together in the library with the rest of the house asleep, everything felt different. They were finally, finally being completely honest with each other, and it was so much easier than she had thought, because everything about the situation was so odd.

"I can't," she said, her voice sounding vulnerable in a way she would have hated under ordinary circumstances. "I can't ruin this." Because this might the last time, the only time they could be together like this. After tonight, when they had made peace with each other, and the past, and their love, they would have to go back to being cousins. Unless… but no, she couldn't allow herself to think like that.

Matthew understood Mary's fear immediately. This was too precious to lose.

But they were both cold.

"Come to my room. There are blankets there. And a hot water bottle that might still be warm."

It was ridiculous, and highly improper, and he shuddered to think what would happen if they were found out. But Mary was right, they couldn't lose _this_. The whole of their interaction that night had been improper. And it wasn't as if she hadn't been in his room before.

Mary stared at him. She couldn't decide if this was logic or insanity. Then she almost laughed. She had just admitted to taking a lover, who died in her bed. Going to her cousin's room to keep warm was nothing. And they wouldn't be discovered; everyone else was in bed, asleep.

"Alright," she agreed. She stood up, shivering again now she no longer had Matthew's arms around her to keep her warm.

Matthew looked up at her, his cheeks turning slightly pink. "I, erm, I might need a hand." The sofa was too low and too soft, and there was no way he was going to be able to push himself up alone.

Mary smiled at him. "Tell me what to do."

He licked his lips, wondering how this was going to work. Mary felt a thrill of desire as she watched him.

"If I could put my arm around your shoulder, I think I could pull myself up," he said.

Mary leaned down, and let him put his arm around her, and at the same time, she put her arm under his.

"Ready?" she asked.

"I think so. On three?"

Mary nodded.

"One… Two… Three."

They both did their bit, and with surprisingly little effort, Matthew was standing, leaning heavily on her, but standing. With only a little assistance from her, he took the few small, unsteady steps he needed to get to his chair, then allowed her to help him lower himself and sit. He closed his eyes when he was sitting. He had overdone it, he knew, and he was tired.

"Matthew?" Mary asked, concerned when he didn't open his eyes.

"I'm fine." He opened his eyes. "Come on then."

He led the way out of the library, across the hall, and down the long corridor to his room. When she saw that he was beginning to tire, Mary took the handles of his chair and pushed him, not fussing or making anything of it; it was simply the sensible thing to do.

Matthew realised that this was one of the many things that made her and Lavinia different. Lavinia had wanted to marry him when he had been a cripple because she had felt that it was her calling to care for him. Mary helped him when he needed it, but she didn't talk of looking after him. She had wanted to _be with him on any terms._ She hadn't wanted to be his nurse, had only wanted him. The thought made his eyes wet. It was so clear to him now that it was Mary, it had only ever been Mary who had his heart.

Mary hesitated when they reached his bedroom. He opened the door, then left space for her to precede him into the room. She bit her lip, then went in. She had been in there before, keeping him company when he had still been weak and had needed to spend several hours a day lying down. But now, it felt different. After several months of his sleeping in here, it had become more like a real bedroom and less like a room in a convalescent home. The bed was still a hospital bed, and it was still quite a small, plain room. But there were books, and pictures, and other signs that showed that this was _his_ room. It was warmer in here already.

Matthew closed the door behind them, and it struck them at the same time how intimate this was. It wasn't that this was his bedroom, although they did know they shouldn't really be there together. It was more the size of the room. Matthew had never thought of it as being small, but compared to the library, it was tiny, and everything was suddenly so close and so real and so immediate.

For a moment, neither of them moved, although their hearts were beating so hard and so fast, they were both surprised the other couldn't hear. Then Mary looked over to the bed and saw on the bedside table the little toy dog she had given Matthew as a good luck charm. She gasped and bit her lip. He still had it, still kept it out, next to where he slept.

Matthew saw what she was looking at, and felt his cheeks going red. Nobody else knew where it had come from. He had told them it was a good luck charm he had been given, but he had somehow managed to disguise how much it meant to him well enough that nobody had asked who had given it to him.

He went around the bed to get it, and without thinking, Mary followed him. He picked it up, then held it out to her.

"Without a scratch," he whispered.

Mary took it and held it to her breast, over her heart. "It worked," she said softly. "You came home to me."

"Yes. It worked. And… oh Mary, you have no idea what it meant to me to have it with me. Good luck, a part of home. A part of you. He came into every battle with me, you know, in my pocket. William used to…" he broke off, and breathed in sharply. He had had an image of William so clear in his mind, had heard his voice so clearly. But William was gone. Only in his memories could he ever hear that voice, see that smile again.

"What did William used to do?" Mary asked gently. She didn't know if this was the right thing to do, to encourage him to talk. Maybe she should just comfort him and change the subject. But William deserved their thoughts, their time, their conversation. William was the reason Matthew was here today, and she knew how close they had been when they were at the front together.

Matthew swallowed. "He used to give me this look that told me he knew exactly whose it was, and why I had it. He never said anything, but he knew. He had this smile that I only ever saw when he had a letter from Daisy, or… or if he saw that I had a letter from you. He was like that. He was as happy for me as he was for himself." He took a deep breath. "He was so good, Mary, so kind and hopeful. He made me believe in a life after the war when I was giving up. He deserved to live. He deserved to be happy."

"I know. So many men deserved to live, so many. And William…" Mary stifled a sob as she remembered William's easy smile, his cheerfulness, the way he was with the horses. For that always was the way to her heart. If Diamond liked someone, she did too. And she had been proved right. William had saved Matthew's life. She would never be as grateful to anyone as she was to him.

"Did he ever tell you he would have been happy looking after the horses in his father's farm, rather than being a footman? He came here because his mother wanted it for him." She didn't know what made her say it, but the truth was, she had had so few conversations with William, she remembered the one she had had in great detail.

Matthew stared at her. "What? How do you know?"

"He told me once. Diamond went lame when I was out riding, and when I went to the stables, I found William before I found Lynch, and he said he'd see to my horse. And we talked a little. He was so good with Diamond, so careful."

Matthew watched her thoughtfully, then said, "That's when you told him about his mother, wasn't it? When she was ill, and he didn't know, and you organised for him to go home to see her before it was too late."

Mary's eyes widened.

"He told me that story when I was so depressed, I wondered whether it even mattered if I survived the next battle. So many of our men had died in the days before, I just wondered if there was any good left in the world. And William told me how it was you who gave him the chance to see his mother for the last time. And I knew that it was all worth it. I remembered that there was still goodness and innocence and kindness, and… love." He paused breathing deeply to try to keep calm. "He liked you, you know. He laughed at the idea of 'the cruel and heartless Lady Mary'. He saw the real you, like I did. Like I do. You're so much nicer than you want people to think."

They looked at each other again, both pairs of eyes brimming with un-shed tears. Then Mary swallowed and looked around.

"Blankets?"

Matthew was brought back to the present, and shook himself. Yes, that was why they were here. To keep warm.

"In the second draw," he said pointing to a chest of draws in the corner. "There are lots. The grey one's the softest, you have that."

Mary opened the drawer and took out two blankets. She wrapped herself in the grey one, and passed the other to Matthew.

"We still need to talk," she said seriously.

"We do," Matthew agreed. "But I'm getting out of this bloody wheelchair first." He smiled bashfully and shook his head. "Sorry. Second time I've sworn in an hour. Or maybe the third. I've lost track."

"Do you need a hand?" she asked.

"No, thank you. I got up earlier, so I should be able to manage."

And he did manage. He carefully stood up, turned slightly, and sat down on the bed. That had actually been easy, and it made him smile. He got under the covers and sat back against the pillows, truly tired now, but not in a bad way.

Without thinking, Mary helped him sit forwards so she could plump up the pillows and position them better, as she had done a thousand times before. And like he had done before, he smiled at her in thanks, even though he could have managed on his own now. Instead of sitting on the single chair in the room, she sat on the bed. As she had done a thousand times before.

The situation was so powerfully familiar, and yet so very different. They were physically the same distance apart. But now, after their conversation that night, they were so much closer, and their physical proximity meant so much more.

"I still don't know what to do, Mary," Matthew said after a moment. He felt so useless. He was the one with the power to determine not only the course of his life, but that of Mary, Lavinia, and, he supposed, Sir Richard. He had to make the right choice. But there was nobody to tell him what that was.

"I don't know either. All I know is that I love you, and Lavinia loves you," Mary said. She shook her head. "You and Lavinia, you are the good ones. Sir Richard and me, well, I suppose we deserve each other."

"No!" Matthew said vehemently. "Don't you dare think you are like him. He thinks you are, and that's why you should never marry him. He makes you unhappy, he makes you cold, and he makes you behave like he expects you to behave. He doesn't know you. Not like I do. Not like William did. You deserve happiness, Mary. You won't find it with him."

"Then it is you or America. I can stay with my Grandmother. There'll be some rich American who wants a titled English wife. One who doesn't read English newspapers." She didn't know what she was doing. Was she trying to persuade Matthew into marrying her, or not? Everything, especially her own feelings, was just too complicated.

The terror Matthew felt at the suggestion that Mary go abroad almost made him gasp, although he controlled himself. Just. The thought of some unknown foreigner wanting Mary for her birth alone made his skin crawl.

"That won't make you happy! You don't want it, and you don't deserve it," he said definitely.

"I don't care! How many times must I tell you, I don't care. I am the one who ruined my own life, so I must live with the consequences." Her voice softened. "Will you be happy with Lavinia? Because seeing you happy must be my solace now."

"I…" he broke off and shook his head. No, he wouldn't be happy. Mary wouldn't be happy. And he couldn't pretend otherwise.

"Will Lavinia be happy?" Mary asked quietly. "If you feel for me as you say you do, will you be able to love Lavinia as she deserves?"

He buried his face in his hands. How could he answer that with her sitting on his bed, so close he could touch her? How could he answer that when she had told him she loved him? How could he even contemplate loving Lavinia as she deserved when the only thought in his mind was of Mary?

And that was it, he realised, that was the problem. He could have loved Lavinia faithfully in a world without Mary. Without Mary, he could have been utterly devoted to the sweetest, kindest woman he would ever meet. He had tried, and it had worked. In London, when he hadn't seen Mary in months, years even, Lavinia had been everything to him.

But this was not a world without Mary. She was here, real, sitting on his bed. She wouldn't cease to exist if he married Lavinia. And because of that, he saw that a marriage to Lavinia would be wrong. Lavinia deserved to be loved properly, to be cherished as she should be, to be the centre of some man's world. That man could never be him, not while Lady Mary Crawley walked this earth.

"No," he said, more certain about this than he had ever been. "I will never be able to give her what she deserves. You Mary, you fill my heart, my head, my very soul. Lavinia deserves more than I can give her."

Mary's heart began to beat fast again. Had she understood? Was he saying…?

"You say there are no second chances in real life. But there are. We just have to be brave enough to take them. We will never be happy apart, Mary. Perhaps we should have married years ago, but then again, perhaps not. I'm not the same man who went off to war, and you're not the same woman I left. We have grown up, we have found out what really matters, and our love has only grown stronger. I don't know what I would have said if you had told me about Pamuk before the war, and I'm afraid I'll never know. But I know what I think now. What happened to you wasn't your fault, and even if it had been your free choice, it wouldn't alter my love for you. My feelings for you are stronger than that.

"I owe it to William to live a life worth living. I owe it to Lavinia to release her and let her find true happiness elsewhere. And I owe it to you to make you happy, to release you from what happened to you all those years ago, and from Sir Richard's cruelty.

"I love you. This _is_ our second chance, Mary. Marry me."

Mary put her hand to her mouth to stifle the cry that escaped.

"You're sure?" she managed to whisper.

"I've never been surer of anything. I'd kneel down for you, except I'm not sure I'd ever get up. Please, marry me."

"Yes!" she cried. "Oh Matthew, yes!"

He held out his arms to her, and she moved closer to him and allowed herself to be pulled into a tight embrace. They held each other for a long minute, feeling flooded with the joy of finally being able to hold each other without guilt. This was how it was supposed to be.

Then they released each other, and kissed.

It was as if everything in the last hour, the last month, the last few years, had been leading up to this. The world melted away, and it was only them, only their love. It was familiar, yet so very different. Before the war, they had been so young, had barely know each other. There had been a deep attraction, and yes, the beginnings of love. But not this. This was something altogether more profound, more deep, more lasting. Something built on friendship and attraction, tried by pain and sadness, tested by suffering and distance, strengthened finally by honesty and trust. This was love, and this was why they had never been happy apart.

Their tongues naturally found each other and the connection was so intimate, they shivered together with desire.

When they finally had to draw away to breathe, they were smiling in wonder, their eyes meeting, full of love and desire, and trust.

There were such things as second chances, and this was theirs. The war was over, and it was time to move on, time to truly live again. There was so much to arrange before they could be properly together, but it didn't matter. They had finally been honest with each other, and they were finally going to be together, as they always should have been. They would brave the storm together, and when the clouds cleared, they would find happiness. Together.


End file.
